


The Last Christmas

by Chthonia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chthonia/pseuds/Chthonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Christmas, Albus Dumbledore has a date with his conscience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for slam_girl as part of the 2011 [hp_holidaygen](http://hp-holidaygen.livejournal.com/49775.html) fic exchange.

It is at the end of the Christmas feast - after Severus has stalked to his study, Sybil has swayed up her stairs and Minerva has issued her annual invitation to join her and Filius for a wee Christmas dram - that Albus is most glad of his ability to Transfigure himself transparent.

Avoiding the students who dare each other to explore the shadowy school corridors is easier than usual; this year, the students have no need to scare themselves. Those few staying at school over the holidays have scurried to their brightly lit common-rooms, seeking refuge from the fear that blankets the world outside.

The windows of Hogsmeade are bright as well, Albus sees as he slips out of the school gate. All over Britain, witches and wizards are gathered to celebrate, in defiance of the dark. Albus, however, will not be joining them.

Christmas is a time for family.

~ * ~

No sound comes from the church; the carollers of the night before are snoozing off their Christmas dinners in front of glowing fires. Albus is alone.

Snow crunches under his boots. The cold pierces his withered hand, but he ignores the pain. Indulging his own comfort would be inappropriate here.

There are day-old flowers on the grave, as there are every year. Albus does not disturb his brother's clumsy arrangement; he has no right to stake a claim to his grief. He offers only his presence, wishing with all that is good within him that he had offered it back then.

_Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also._

The epitaph stands as a stony rebuke. While Albus strayed in search of arcane knowledge, it was Aberforth who knew instinctively what should be valued.

Though _love_ is not an answer that offers comfort to Albus. Is it wrong, he wonders, to envy Aberforth the simplicity of his choices, or Ariana her natural spontaneity? Albus puts his faith in love because to do otherwise is to hand the world to the likes of Voldemort, but love cannot show him a path that protects those he cares for from pain.

Ah, but here he is again, focusing on his own problems when he is supposed to be remembering Ariana: Ariana reaching for a bobbing bauble Charmed by Father, Ariana and Aberforth tugging at his robe in some childish game, Ariana begging Mother for a spiced biscuit hot from the oven…

It's no good: only if he had taken the time to know her then would he have his own special memories of her to draw on now. In truth, he is here to mourn not Ariana, but his failure as a brother. To be reminded not of his little sister, but of the dangers of hubris.

Albus shivers. He has lingered too long.

Christmas is a time for the living.

~ * ~

The jagged monolith is barely visible against the peaks that surround it, but Albus knows its outline well. Few do, these days: the despair in this place is etched into the rocks. Muggles who linger too long feel an unnamed dread; for wizards, naming it is reason enough to stay away.

Albus is alone.

Almost.

There's a faint glow from a window high above. The sole occupant is awake, trapped in his last monument - a prison that in caging him has finally lived up to its motto.

_For the Greater Good._

Albus winces at the phrase. After all these years, he still wrestles with _the Greater Good._

It was summer when it began, and summer when he ended it, so he has no memories of Gellert at Christmas save for watching the window from this narrow mountain path. That should make it easier, but doesn't. Albus bears the responsibility for putting him here; he bears the greater responsibility for not putting him here sooner; and he bears the guilt for feeling Gellert's silent accusations of betrayal more keenly than his betrayal of all those whom Gellert has silenced forever.

Whatever was missing from Gellert's soul led him to destroy countless others in unspeakable ways, but in the end Albus could not destroy him in turn. Death would, perhaps, have been the more compassionate choice, for both of them. But then Albus would have lost his dark mirror of might-have-been, and Gellert would have lost any chance to redeem his soul.

He has heard that Gellert has learned remorse over the years, but he has not found himself able to visit, to see for himself. He hopes it is true. He hopes that the man who had enflamed such passion had possessed, after all, some spark of humanity.

Part of him fears that a spark wouldn't have been enough, whatever he might have done. He hadn't managed to save Tom Riddle, after all.

The church bells in the valley below sound faint but clear in the brittle air.

Eleven o'clock. The day is almost done.

Albus wonders whether Gellert still counts the hours, or whether time stopped for him long ago. And whether he will welcome the final end, when it comes.

The last chime fades to silence. Albus turns away.

Christmas is a time for fellowship.

~ * ~

Light spills from the crack under Minerva's door. Albus hesitates before knocking.

If Minerva is surprised to see him, she shows it with only the slightest raise of an eyebrow. Filius giggles; a sprig of mistletoe appears above her head in a shower of glittery snowflakes.

Albus smiles indulgently, and exchanges a chaste peck on her cheek for a glass of Firewhiskey. Pomona is here too, sharing a joke with Poppy by the fire, while Hagrid's booming laughter floods the room. Even Aurora has been tempted down from her tower on this clear night, though she may be regretting that in the face of Horace's name-dropping and Septima's overly mathematical attempts at conversation. Rolanda is not with them - she always spends Christmas with one of her old Quidditch teammates - and Charity is spending the holiday with her husband's family in Droitwich.

He is not surprised that Severus is absent. Some on the staff have never fully trusted him, and his manner does little to dispel their fears.

Toasts are proposed: to health, to absent friends, to the holding of light in a dark time. Minerva catches his gaze and smiles, as if his mere presence guarantees that all will be well.

She trusts him too much. There are too many things she doesn't question, and so he does not confide in her as perhaps he should. It is easier to talk to Severus, whose own burden of guilt is great enough to blind him to that which Albus carries.

Though Severus could at least trust in love, despite the suffering it had caused him: its anguish had guided him to the best part of himself. But love - or the desire for it - had nearly destroyed Albus, and then blinded him to the suffering of so many others.

His eyes are open now, and he sees so much more than his colleagues. He sees the darkness rising. He sees the moves he must teach Harry to make. He sees his time running out.

He does not share these thoughts. Instead, he raises his glass.

Christmas is a time for hope.


End file.
